


Here is My Vow (Sealed in Blood)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally-damaged character, F/M, Lovers killing for each other, Physical mutilation, Revenge-Killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: He would do anything for her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A very short collection of missing scenes that never made it into "Tiger, Tiger", from Victor's POV. Yes, I know: I need to stop. But I just can't leave these two alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Mr. Zsasz, nor do I own any characters as imagined by the creators of "Gotham" or "Batman". Iris does belong to me, but that's it. Thank you, and enjoy. :)

“You’ve heard the phrase, ‘Good manners cost nothing,’ right?” he paces lazily; across the far wall, shadows dance across drywall like sprites of lore. “Of course you have; you pride yourself on being an educated man, after all.”

A pause; he turns on the left heel, exactly five centimeters, and smiles. “Educated. But not terribly bright.”

Victor does wonder how much the man can see, sans glasses, before deciding it doesn’t matter. There’s an element of delight; a thrill borne solely of knowing the prey cannot see what’s coming to them. The remaining senses lurch into overdrive. The imagination runs wild. And the imagination can be such a terrible thing.

The man’s mouth is open, secured with four wires: two on each side. Immobile, but not mute. He whimpers and garbles out some tidbit of incoherency. Victor smiles. The blade is small, but a larger instrument isn’t necessary. That’s the problem with amateur work: they fall victim to the “bigger is better” myth. The tiniest and most inconspicuous can be the deadliest.

Even fingernails. He could open a man’s veins with his fingernails, if he were so inclined.

“I know you think this is overkill—no pun intended,” he smirks a little at his own joke, “but I assure you, Dr. Guerra, it’s not. Because good manners indeed cost nothing, and arrogance comes with a hefty price. …And no one talks to my girl like that.”

Victor doesn’t leave the body out to be discovered this time. He drops the remains off the peer and watches them sink with the aid of iron weights—a helpful little donation from the local scrapyard.

No one actually notices Guerra is missing until the weekend passes. Then, a few people mention it in passing before the higher authority decides to post for a new opening. Iris is among the silent observers, making no comment and going about her job in peace.

At night, Victor pulls her close and runs fingers through her hair. “I’ll do anything for you, love.” He breathes, and kisses her neck. “Say the word, and it’s yours.”

Some nights, he glimpses the tiny curve of a smile on her lips.

***

Iris is a paradox: a puzzle complied of many different pieces. Some of them were meant to belong; others are misfit shapes and forms which have been forced, beaten, and manipulated into compliance. She is a silver tongue and a force of brutal honesty. She is ice-cold beauty over a spirit of molten fury. She is life and death. She is perfect.

“I want to hear him scream.” She whispers, naked and still warm from their bed, while fingers dance their way across his chest and sneak through lapels he hasn’t yet buttoned. “I want him to _bleed_.”

Don Falcone wants him to ask permission before killing cops. It’s a general rule to be abided by all his paid employees. And he does pay Victor, very well.

“Say the word,” he whispers, blue eyes gazing deeply into crystalline orbs, “and it’s yours.”

“Kill him.” She says. It is the beginning of the end; end of the beginning. She commands him, tiger burning wild in the night, and he obeys. She demands blood be spilt, that her vengeance be taken by his hands, and there is no remorse in her eyes. She utters a man’s death sentence, and in that moment she becomes—irrevocably, wholly, and utterly— _his_.

***

He returns to her late in the night—or early in the morning, however one looks at it. Blood is soaked through his clothes and smeared across his skin. There’s a bullet graze across his upper right arm (the jacket and shirt are beyond repair for it), and an unfortunately deep incision at his clavicle where Flass got a lucky blow. Now, well after the fact, the hand holding said knife, responsible for inflicting the aforementioned, has a bullet hole—among a few other injuries. To name one, in particular: the removal of all five fingers.

Iris is waiting, no matter how late the hour. She draws him close with arms open and wanting. He is tired, uncommonly so, from the evening’s activities. He rests with head cradled at her breast and limbs woven around her waist. She takes a knife and cuts away the ruined clothes with surgical precision; he thinks, while she works in silence, he would very much like to watch her perform an autopsy. Those beautiful hands: slicing into decayed flesh, peeling and folding until the inner workings are revealed. She will examine with blue eyes sharp and focused, unmoved by distraction. Every movement will be calculated and not borne of impulse. She will be an artist; a virtuoso crafting brilliance with her hands alone.

She will be just like him.

_She already is._

Her lips suckle, light and tender, at the knife wound. Her fingertips caress the ugly burned path left across his skin by a lucky shot. She touches without haste. She kisses in the way that makes him sigh and ignites his blood. She makes love to him with touch alone, ceaseless and unwavering—she knows his body as she knows her own—until he lies limp, relaxed, and at peace.

“I would do anything for you, _moy tigr_.” She murmurs. He rests once more in her embrace, the song of her heartbeat lulling him into blissful oblivion; her fingers dance lazy steps across his skin. “Anything.”

_As I would you._

***

“I need you to relax.” He whispers, thumb gliding across his awaiting canvas. “This is going to hurt.”

The first cut is difficult for him. Spilling blood on her behalf, at her command and behest, is easy; she has never asked him to spill _her_ blood. She’s never sought his blade to pierce, deep, and draw the beautiful crimson river of her life source from its veins. She has always been whole, untouched and unmarked…and then it was ruined. That which should have been Victor’s to claim has been stolen and butchered.

_“Make me beautiful again.”_

He can. He will. It’s just not as easy as he thought it would be. He has kissed this skin. He’s run slow paths over every inch and worshipped it deservingly. He has brought her into his arms and pressed naked skin into one delicate shape, perfect continuity, and now he must cut and draw blood—her blood! Such a vibrant, exquisite shade of red! He could paint with that color, and it would be a masterpiece!—because he cannot refuse her.

Because he loves her.

His love is dangerous. His love is more deadly a poison than mankind could ever know. It will be a slow poison, infecting her over time. Eventually, she will be faced with a choice: to fight and resist (but to do so is not an option, for he will never let her go) or to succumb and embrace her fate. She will submit—not in life, but to the gift he presents her: to shed her weak human flesh and emerge a phoenix from the ashes, a goddess triumphant and queen ascending to her rightful throne. She will be his.

_She already is._


End file.
